Starlight and Fairy Tales
by starrysummernights
Summary: Kid!lock, eventual Teen!lock, AU following Sherlock and John, Mycroft and Lestrade through childhood- including first meetings, the hazards of being friends with a Holmes, getting into trouble, and falling in love. Rating may go up in later chapters.
1. Mycroft Reads A Fairy Tale

**A fluffy kid!lock one-shot I felt compelled to write after taking care of my little nephew this past week. :) Enjoy**

* * *

"…and so the Prince kissed the frog and…All of a sudden, the frog began to change until it turned into a beautiful princess."

"That's stupid."

Mycroft paused and looked down at his little brother who, from under a wild tangle of curly brown hair, was frowning, obviously put out with his bedtime story.

"What is stupid?" He asked, trying to smooth back the unmanageable fringe so he could see his brother's eyes and getting an irritated smack on the hand for his efforts. He made a mental note to tell the nanny to take Sherlock for a haircut. Immediately.

Sherlock sighed with an annoyance that seemed much too old for his five years. "_The story_. Why would the Prince want to kiss _a frog_? They carry Salmonella and parasites. And the story didn't say but was it a poisonous frog? In which case the Prince could have _died_ from kissing it. Even if it did talk. And besides, frogs taste _horrible_."

Wincing, not wanting to know how his brother had found out that last factoid, Mycroft shifted on the bed. "Well-"

"And if he _did_ kiss a frog, why did it have to turn into a _princess_?" Sherlock asked disgustedly, crossing his small arms across his chest with a flop.

"It's intended as a romance, Sherlock."

"Why would _that_ be romantic?"

Mycroft closed the book and stared down at his brother, debating. It was too early to give Sherlock The Talk. Not that he would start out that way of course, but Sherlock was so inquisitive (Mycroft thought his favorite word was "why")- as soon as Mycroft would start talking, trying to explain, Sherlock would start asking questions and Mycroft knew where it would end up. Even if his brother were intelligent and years more advanced than his peers, it was still too early to be telling him things like that.

So, instead, Mycroft did what he was already particularly good at doing: deflecting. "Laying aside the fact that as soon as the frog started talking to you, you would have done countless experiments on it…What would _you_ have wanted it to turn into?"

Sherlock snorted and snuggled deeper into his covers. "A boy, obviously. Girls are stupid. A boy would've been able to help with my experiments and wouldn't run away crying if I said something they didn't like. They just would've punched me and moved on from it. Then we could have gone on a _real_ adventure, not playing in the forest like the Prince did."

"Indeed." Mycroft replied dryly, trying not to laugh and laying aside the book. "I think it's time-"

"One more, My?"

Big, suddenly watery eyes looked up imploringly at him and, when Mycroft gave Sherlock an unyielding look, the little bottom lip began to wobble.

"Please?"

Knowing he was being manipulated, and not even very well done at that, Mycroft rifled through the pages of the book. He bit back the remark that Sherlock was not only too old for fairy tales but too intelligent for them, knowing sometime very soon his little brother would no longer require him to read to him at night and already feeling a pang at the idea.

"_One_ more." He said sternly and every trace of tears were gone as Sherlock wriggled delightedly and smiled smugly at pulling one over on his older brother. "Which one?"


	2. Playgrounds and Pirates

"Is anyone sitting here?"

Sherlock didn't bother lifting his head from his book at the sound of the softly-spoken question before snapping, "Go away!"

"I was just asking-"

"And I just answered you. Go away!"

Despite Sherlock's rudeness, the little boy remained standing in front of him, tugging fretfully at the hem of his uniform and looking uneasily around the playground where the rest of the six year olds in their year were running and jumping, taking advantage of the cool but sunny September day. The short little boy didn't know anyone and he felt all the uneasiness and fear of being the odd-man-out in a new school on his first day. He'd been watching the strange, curly-haired boy in his class all day and he didn't seem to have any friends either. So when the same boy had taken himself away from everyone and sat on the bench beneath the brightly colored tree, the smaller boy had thought it was the perfect time to introduce himself.

Turning his sandy blonde head back to the boy reading, he bit his bottom lip before trying again.

"What are you reading?"

Sherlock sighed, a long, aggravated sound and raised his book from where it rested on his lap so the other boy could see the cover before plopping it back down. He then went back to ignoring him.

"The History of Pirates?"

Sherlock flicked a page with more vigor than necessary and exaggeratedly kept his eyes fixed on his book.

"You like pirates, then?"

"_Obviously_." Sherlock couldn't help replying. Why wouldn't this boy leave him _alone_? Was he really that stupid? "Why _else_ would I read a book about them?"

"I dunno."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and went back to reading.

The small boy turned his attention away from Sherlock, glancing out at the playground again and squinting his eyes against the bright sun as he watched the other boys from their class playing football across the way. Sherlock raised his eyes from his book and took the opportunity to study the unwelcome newcomer from beneath lowered brows.

Came from a poor family- not a new uniform, he could see where it was fraying in certain spots. He was new to the class, worried about it because he kept shifting around, biting his bottom lip, and worrying the fabric of his navy blue jacket between his fingers. No friends, just like Sherlock, but willing to be friendly.

The boy suddenly turned back to Sherlock, wide blue eyes meeting his irritated green ones and a small, shy smile flickered across the boy's face. He partially extended his hand to Sherlock, cleared his throat nervously. "I'm John Watson."

Sherlock stared at John Watson's hand. He could ignore him. That would make John Watson leave. Or he could tell him he knew he was poor, struggled with basic maths, and had cried this morning before coming to school.

He _could_ do all that…but…he sort of, well. He sort of didn't want to. John Watson seemed…nice. And he wanted to be friends with Sherlock. No one ever wanted to be friends with Sherlock.

Taking Sherlock's lengthy hesitation as rejection, the smile slipped from John Watson's face and he began to lower his hand.

Sherlock quickly reached forward and grabbed the retreating hand.

"I'm Sherlock Holmes." He said, and watched as a bright, happy smile spread across John's face until he was unabashedly grinning at Sherlock, a tentative, echoing smile flashing across Sherlock's face in return.

Sherlock scooted over on his bench and John hopped up beside him, his feet dangling well above the ground. Sherlock gently placed his book partially on John's lap so they could both look at it.

"What do you know about pirates?"


	3. Disproving Imaginary Friends

**AN: Sherlock and John are still 6 years old in this chapter.  
**

* * *

The immense dining room at Holmes Manor was brightly lit against the encroaching dark of the early evening and the three people grouped cozily around the gleaming mahogany table were laughing and talking, having a wonderful, carefree time despite their austere surroundings.

Mr. Holmes was away on business (just how everyone in the house liked him) and this was the first time Mummy had left her room in two days, finally up, dressed, and smiling though some sadness still lingered in her eyes. Needless to say, her sons were making the most of their absent mother's attention and love, both wanting to talk at once and grinning sheepishly and glaring at each other when Mummy affectionately tutted at them.

Mycroft had just finished complaining about Gregory Lestrade, a local boy who attended Mycroft's school and kept following him around, despite Mycroft's insistence he stop.

"It's very annoying." Mycroft concluded, punctuating his statement with a morose bite of his vegetables. When he and Sherlock ate alone they didn't have to eat their vegetables, but when Mummy was present she always insisted or there was no pudding. "He's always showing up and asking stupid questions, which I try and ignore. He won't give up, though, and when I answer him, instead of making him leave, it just _encourages_ him."

Mummy smiled indulgently at him over her wine glass. "Have you thought that maybe he likes you, darling?"

Mycroft wrinkled his nose in disgust. "Ew. Mummy…no." He shook his head as if to clear the revolting thought away and Mrs. Holmes laughed.

"There's nothing wrong with being _friends_, Mycroft. You're too young for anything else. Besides, he doesn't sound like an unpleasant boy, just one wanting to be friendly."

Mycroft shrugged. "He's not exactly _bad_. He is…different." He frowned down at his plate in consternation. "I don't like him, Mummy."

"And that's fine, darling. You don't _have_ to be friends with him." Mrs. Holmes assured her eldest and Mycroft beamed over at her.

"How was _your_ day, Sherlock?" Mrs. Holmes asked, gazing fondly down at her youngest seated beside her, who was presently occupied with shoveling chicken into his mouth like a wild thing. Mycroft was watching him with a look bordering on scandalized and this seemed to spur Sherlock's behavior on. Mrs. Holmes thought it was probably the only reason Sherlock was behaving in such an uncouth way but didn't have the heart to correct him.

Swallowing his gargantuan mouthful with great effort, Sherlock piped up. "Great! John's helping me categorize all the different kinds of insects we find at school. We caught a spider today, an _Araneus diadematus_, and he accidentally let it loose in the class. We got in trouble when-"

"You mean _you_ got in trouble." Mycroft quietly corrected and Sherlock frowned over at him.

"What?"

"You mean to say _you_ got in trouble. Not you and John. I've been hearing about your imaginary friend for the past week and you're too old-"

"John's not imaginary!" Sherlock shouted indignantly. "He's _real_!"

"Of course he is, darling." Mummy said conciliatingly, smiling at her scowling, unhappy little boy before giving Mycroft A Look. She carded her fingers through Sherlock's wild curls, stroking him like an overlarge cat, trying to soothe him, and he stoically allowed the contact.

"Sorry, Mummy." Mycroft muttered, shooting Sherlock his own Look but Sherlock was pouting at his potatoes and refused to speak the rest of dinner.

* * *

"You should come stay at my house this weekend." Sherlock said suddenly, startlingly John who, in his surprise, let go of the grasshopper they had been trying to catch the past fifteen minutes.

Sherlock resignedly watched it hop quickly away, desperately making its bid for freedom, before turning to his friend.

"You want me to stay at your house?" John echoed, eyes wide as he stared up at Sherlock. He stood, trying to dust the dirt from his trouser legs but it was a lost cause and he finally gave up.

"Yes." Sherlock was already well-used to repeating things for John. It wasn't that the smaller boy wasn't smart, or didn't hear him the first time- he just seemed not to comprehend Sherlock's sudden and sometimes inexplicable leaps from one topic to the next. Sherlock had been nattering on about grasshoppers and crickets for the last half hour- now suddenly he wanted John at his house. It was hard for the smaller boy to keep up.

"Why?" John sounded totally mystified.

Sherlock shrugged uneasily, suddenly feeling stupid. John probably only wanted to be friends with him at school, where he was _forced_ to be. Not outside, where he had other options. "It was just an idea." He muttered, scuffing his shoes, kicking up mini dust clouds, and turning away. "Forget it."

"No-wait!" John cried, darting after him and grabbing Sherlock's hand in his own. Sherlock paused and looked to where their small, grubby hands were pressed hotly together, feeling a funny stab in the middle of his chest, a curious swooping sensation in his stomach. No one ever…

He returned John's grip and the smaller boy beamed at him.

"I- I want to stay over at yours. I have- have to ask my mum first but if she says yes- I want to. I really do." John explained in a breathless rush and Sherlock stared at him before smiling.

"Really?"

"Yes!" John grinned excitedly and Sherlock tightened his grip on John's hand before towing him after their escaped insect.

* * *

"John's coming over this weekend." Sherlock announced proudly from the doorway of Mycroft's bedroom.

The older boy looked up from his book, raising a skeptical eyebrow. "Is he?"

"_Yes_." Sherlock jutted his chin out stubbornly and marched into Mycroft's room uninvited. "He's already asked his mum and she said he could stay over Friday _and_ Saturday nights."

Sensing an argument, Mycroft marked his place in his book and sat up as Sherlock clambered onto his bed, kicking his shoes off and letting them thud to the floor without a care. He curled his socked feet beneath him and stared at Mycroft accusingly.

"I know why you said he wasn't real."

Mycroft laid his book aside before turning to his little brother. "Why's that?"

"Because no one's ever wanted to be my friend before and you think the only way I can have a friend is if I make him up."

"That's not true, 'lock." Mycroft said placating. "I think you're a great child and anyone would be lucky to have you as a friend."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "_But_?"

Mycroft sighed and stretched out on his bed, Sherlock mirroring him, and together they stared up at the red and gold canopy above them. "Neither of us make friends easily." Mycroft admitted quietly.

"Everyone's too stupid to be friends with." Sherlock protested.

"But not John?" Mycroft prodded and he felt Sherlock shrug beside him.

"John's _not_ as smart as I am. But he's…fun. And brave. And loyal. And funny. And he doesn't mind that I like to do experiments and he even likes to help me with them." _And I think he actually _likes_ me_, Sherlock thought, but he frowned and didn't say that because he didn't want to jinx his friendship. If John _tolerated_ him, that was fine enough, but it was baffling to think the boy might actually _like_ him. Just for being him.

Mycroft smiled at the awe that entered his little brother's voice when talking about his friend. To be honest, he _had_ thought John Watson was imaginary. He knew his brother, and Sherlock could be off-putting on his best days. He didn't make friends easily, had never actually had a friend before, and he knew the boy was lonely.

Still, he hoped John Watson was both real _and_ a good child. He didn't want to see his brother hurt.

"So…what did you want? Because I was reading, Sherlock."

Sherlock squirmed uneasily beside him and plucked at the duvet. "I wanted to ask…what do you _do_ at a sleepover?"


	4. Darkness and Spooks

When the doorbell rang, signaling the arrival of Sherlock's "friend," Mycroft, rolling his eyes in annoyance, laid aside his book and strode to the front door on his own.

Sherlock had been restless since arriving home from school, snapping at Mycroft not to bother him and shutting himself in his room, banging things around apparently in preparation for the much-anticipated sleepover. Mycroft had retreated downstairs to find a quiet place to read and had just been settling in nicely in the squishy, wing-backed chair in mother's parlor when the bell sounded.

The pounding of feet from above indicated Sherlock had heard the bell too and Mycroft listened as his brother padded down the stairs then stopped dead before he reached the bottom, freezing in hesitation, leaving silence in his wake.

Also leaving Mycroft, of course, to answer the door.

John Watson was not what Mycroft Holmes had been expecting because John Watson was, apparently, very real and not at all a figment of his brother's imagination.

"Oh. Hello." Mrs. Watson smiled politely at Mycroft, surprised to find a child answering the door and Mycroft watched her blue eyes glance over his head into the empty foyer. "I'm Mrs. Watson and this is my son, John. He's here to spend the night with Sherlock?"

"I'm Sherlock's older brother, Mycroft." Mycroft explained, politely extending his hand and Mrs. Watson hesitated only briefly before shaking it, trying but failing to suppress her bemusement at shaking hands with a thirteen year old.

"Nice to meet you, dear." She readjusted her hold on John's hand, who stood quietly beside her and seemed to be taking his own measure of Mycroft, just as Mycroft was doing him.

John was short for his age, rather thin, with wide blue eyes, the same shade as his mother's, that were too big for his face. His blonde hair was short, obviously cut at home by his mother, and stuck up at the back in little tufts. Mrs. Watson, even as Mycroft watched, tried to smooth these down into something more presentable and John sighed, ducking out of the way. His clothes were secondhand, though in good nick, but Mycroft could see where they had been mended and patched in more than one place, and his jeans were worn thin at the knees until the fabric was almost white.

"I was hoping to speak to Mrs. Holmes." Mrs. Watson fretted, gesturing aimlessly with the hand still clutching John's. Mycroft cocked his head.

"Mummy…isn't currently available."

Mrs. Watson frowned. "She's not here? I'm sorry but…I can't leave John if there's no adult present-"

"_Mum_!" John protested but Mycroft smoothly cut in to defuse the situation, hearing a tiny, outraged gasp from behind him near the vicinity of the stairs.

"You misunderstand me, Mrs. Watson. Mummy _is_ here, but she's…not feeling very well tonight. She sends her regrets she wasn't able to come downstairs and meet you. But my brother and John will be properly chaperoned." Mycroft chose to leave out the part that _he_ would be the one chaperoning the six year olds. He didn't think Mrs. Watson would approve.

"Oh."

Mycroft watched Mrs. Watson dither over this new information but a quick check of her watch and the hopeful expression of her son seemed to make up her mind. She crouched in front of John, bringing their faces level. "You promise to be on your best behavior for Mrs. Holmes?"

"Yes, mum."

Mrs. Watson sternly peered into her son's eyes before smiling softly and standing, kissing his cheek on the way up. John protested and wiped the kiss away with the sleeve of his jumper, scowling up at his mother in anger and embarrassment.

"_Mum_!"

"Have fun." Mrs. Watson grinned at her indignant little boy before turning that soft smile to Mycroft. "Thank you, Mycroft. I hope your mother feels better soon."

"Thank you, Mrs. Watson." Mycroft responded, watching as she handed John his bag, caressing his cheek one last time, before making her way back down the walk and to their- Mycroft leaned forward slightly to check- very secondhand automobile.

"John?"

John looked around Mycroft's body at the hesitant, soft question and his entire face lit up when he saw Sherlock peering around the foyer door.

"Sherlock!" He ducked around Mycroft and ran to his friend, whose face relaxed into an easy smile and Sherlock strolled into the foyer proper, all his attention focused on John.

Mycroft shut the door and leaned against it, watching in amusement as John started telling Sherlock something about the ride over, how his mum had got lost and they'd had to stop and ask directions- and Sherlock subtly slipped his hand into John's and beamed as his short friend twittered on aimlessly.

"- and all the houses we passed were _really_ big. I didn't know yours was _this big_."

Sherlock shrugged, not really concerned about the size of his house or those surrounding it. "I suppose. We can-"

"I bet it's great for playing hide-and-go-seek." John suddenly declared. "Our house is too small to play it properly and Harry always finds me in no time." He grinned at Sherlock. "Can we play that?"

"What?"

"Hide-and-go-seek. I'll let you go first if you want. There's probably tons of places to hide in _here_."

Sherlock frowned and his eyes very briefly skittered up to Mycroft's in genuine concern. "I don't know how to play that." He confessed and watched John look surprised, then pleased, gripping Sherlock's hand tighter. The smaller boy was used to Sherlock not knowing how to do a lot of things, for all his being the smartest boy in their class. John wasn't annoyed by it- it just meant it was down to him to teach Sherlock something for a change.

"That's ok. I can teach you. It's not hard and it's really fun. Me and Harry play all the time but she peeks and cheats."

Sherlock dithered, not liking the idea of playing something he hadn't a clue about. Even if it was with John. "Maybe later. Let me show you my room, John."

"Ok," John grinned and slung his bag up on his back.

"Don't forget that dinner will be in an hour, Sherlock." Mycroft reminded his brother, receiving a glare for his efforts and watched as his little brother used John's hand to drag him from the room and John followed like an eager little puppy.

* * *

"Look what we can watch!" Sherlock crowed once they were ensconced in his room, brandishing a DVD at John.

"My mum said I'm not allowed to watch that." John said uneasily, dumping his bag to the carpet and staring from Sherlock's excited face to the DVD he clutched in his hands.

Sherlock made a face. "She won't find out. Besides, we _are_ old enough to watch it." He neglected to mention the rating was much too high for them and that he wasn't allowed to watch it either. He'd stolen the DVD from Mycroft without his elder brother's knowledge and wasn't about to miss this opportunity to both watch the movie _and_ impress John. "It's about pirates and has Johnny Depp in it-"

"Yeah! He's the main pirate, right?" John asked, taking the DVD from Sherlock and gazing at the cover. It looked excellent- swords and guns and pirates and fighting. "And he has to fight the bad guys- Harry told me about it but I think she left all the good parts out." John made his own disgusted face. Sherlock sympathized. Elder siblings were not good.

He watched John stare in fascination at the cover of the DVD and wiped sweaty palms on his trouser legs, not really knowing where to go from here. Mycroft had told him to just relax, that he and John would find something to occupy themselves with but Sherlock had pre-planned and had a few experiments in mind they could do with his chemistry set. His butterfly net was laid out but he and John already caught insects at school and it was possible John wouldn't want to do that _here_. So he'd rooted around the house until he'd found a deck of cards, remembering John liked playing some sort of game with them that didn't interest Sherlock and at which he always lost to make John smile. He'd also found some of his better, more interesting books he thought might interest John and was even prepared to tramp about outside playing football if it meant John wasn't bored and didn't wanted to go home.

"So," John handed the DVD back and smiled at Sherlock. "What do you want to do?"

Sherlock licked his lips nervously. "Uhm…We could…_could_…"

"Let's play hide-and-go-seek!" John suggested excitedly and Sherlock, staring at his wide, thrilled eyes, hadn't the heart to say no.

* * *

Mycroft clenched his jaw in annoyance as John shouted "_Found you_!" and Sherlock's accompanying shriek left Mycroft's ears ringing. He listened to the two boys thunder down the hallway, shouting at each other, before there was silence- then the methodical sound of Sherlock counting…

"1…2…3…4…5…6…."

Wholly laying aside his book, Mycroft marched to the door of his bedroom and jerked it open, intent on telling Sherlock and his friend off for making so much noise _when he was trying to read_.

The angry words died on his lips, though, when he was confronted with a grinning, pink-cheeked, wholly child-like Sherlock whose ecstatic smile started slipping from his face as he took in Mycroft's thunderous expression, and he stopped counting.

"Myc…?"

Mycroft paused, then, "I thought you and John might like to have popcorn while you watch your movie tonight."

An excited but muffled "yeah!" sounded from down the hall and Sherlock threw Mycroft a devious smile before tip-toeing in the direction of his hidden friend.

Mycroft, resigned, retreated back to his room to find his earplugs.

* * *

The darkness in Sherlock's bedroom was absolute, just how he liked it.

Usually.

Except tonight, for the first time, he didn't like the dark.

He kept hearing noises that, despite his best efforts, were scaring him.

Which was stupid because _that_ noise- the creaking, groaning one- was the noise the pipes made sometimes when the weather was cooler. It wasn't the dread moaning of a restless, vengeful pirate spirit.

And _that_ one- the dull thud, thud, thud- was one of the maids walking down the hall. There was no skeletal pirates outside about to fling his bedroom door open and have at him and John with a rusty sword.

In the too-loud darkness of his room, Sherlock set his little mouth and steeled himself. He was smarter than this, getting scared of _nothing_. He wasn't having it. He'd just stop it, stop it right now because there was nothing to be scared of.

He felt John shift beside him.

"Sherlock?"

"Yeah?"

… "Nothing."

There was silence as John shifted closer to Sherlock beneath the covers and Sherlock correctly identified that the distant howling from outside had canine origins and not ghostly ones.

He sternly told himself that even as his little heart lurched and tried to beat out of his chest.

"What was that?" John's voice trembled quietly and Sherlock had to suck in a steadying breath of his own before answering.

"It was just a dog."

"Are you…are you sure?"

"Yes." Sherlock replied, feeling John inch closer to him in the bed.

"It didn't sound like a dog."

"Well, it was." Sherlock tried snapping but the usual bite in his voice was lacking and he jumped along with John when a strange, rapid tapping started in the corner of his bedroom. It was over as quickly as it'd started, but by the time it was over, John was pressed flush against the side of Sherlock's body and Sherlock had caught John's hand and was gripping it with all his strength.

"What was that?" John whispered, his voice squeaking, terrified, and Sherlock was no better off.

"I don't know." Came the posh, frightened reply and the two little boys clutched each other and stared, unseeingly, into the vast, oppressive darkness of Sherlock's bedroom.

"Do you have a torch?" John whispered, the hand not occupied in being squeezed by Sherlock coming up to twist in the fabric of Sherlock's pajama top just in case the skeletal pirates tried to wrest his friend away from him.

Sherlock nodded, realized John couldn't see him, and whispered. "Yes. Just let me-"

He twisted as best he was able while still clinging to John's hand and fumbled for the briefest of seconds- John gasped at the loud noise- and suddenly the room was bathed in the white light of Sherlock's torch. He pointed it up to the ceiling, the better to illuminate the entire room, and turned to find John staring at him, pale faced.

He gave John a shaky smile. "Better?"

John nodded and together they checked to make certain no restless spirits lurked in the corners of Sherlock's room.

* * *

The next morning, when Mycroft came in to wake Sherlock and John for breakfast, it was to find the two little boys propped against the headboard, slumped against each other, Sherlock still clutching the now-dead torch in his hand.


	5. Passing Notes In Class

Mycroft didn't react when a folded up slip of paper landed on his desk, bouncing across his textbook and skidding to rest against his hand. He flicked it casually away, sending it flying to the floor, and kept taking notes.

"-and the hypotenuse can be found by using the square root function derived from the Pythagorean theorem, which states-"

"_Psst_."

Mycroft didn't enjoy being "_Psst'd_" at and so kept writing.

The same folded up piece of paper flopped onto his desk again and this time Mycroft laid down his pencil, took up the missive, and tore it into tiny little shreds which he balled up and shoved to the corner of his desk to be disposed of later.

When the next note landed on his desk, he decided his pencil needed sharpening and threw both the shredded paper and the new note in the bin on his way.

The third note was wadded up without being read and shoved in his bag.

The fourth note was shredded with growing impatience.

When he received the _fifth_ note, Mycroft had finally had enough. Pressing his lips together, he opened the paper to see what the idiot wanted him to read so badly, only to find one word scrawled untidily on the page.

_Hi_.

* * *

Gregory Lestrade grinned widely and wriggled his eyebrows when Mycroft Holmes _finally_ looked at him- though in disgust and bemusement.

It was still progress.

* * *

**I like my Greg Lestrade happy-go-lucky.**

**Let's all thank Wikipedia for the hypotenuse explanation because I do not do math.**


	6. Fresh Leaves

**Please keep in mind I have Greg and Mycroft's ages 13-ish at this point. I will let you know when ages change. :)**

* * *

"I'll partner Mycroft!"

Mycroft didn't need to look round to recognize that voice, eagerly claiming him for the project. He clenched his jaw in annoyance and watched in mute resignation as Mr. Beamer smiled, nodded, and scribbled down their names on his roster before turning to the student beside Mycroft and jotting down that pairing.

He could protest, Mycroft knew, but that would just cause a scene and he didn't want the stares and mutters of his classmates directed at him as he argued with Mr. Beamer that no, he would _really_ prefer to work by himself. Besides, he already knew he'd lose that argument. The look Mr. Beamer had given him last time the class had done "group work" and Mycroft had worked alone had informed him he wouldn't be able to get away with it _again_.

Most of his other teachers didn't care. They all knew Mycroft Holmes was brilliant and worked alone and that it was really for the best that way. If he were partnered with anyone, he ended up doing the majority of the work, which meant his partner learned nothing and wasn't fair for Mycroft.

Mr. Beamer, however, thought it good for Mycroft to "work with his peers" and "develop his people skills."

Mycroft detested it.

And even if he _were_ going to work with someone else, he wouldn't choose-

"Hey!" Greg Lestrade dropped his bag to the floor with a thud and slipped into the vacant seat beside Mycroft, grinning widely. "How're you doing, Mycroft?"

"Fine." Mycroft grated out from behind clenched teeth but Greg apparently didn't notice, or just chose not to, because his grin didn't slip.

"What'd you do this weekend?"

Mycroft blinked at him. "This weekend?"

"Yeah. What'd you go out and do? Or anything?"

Mycroft closed his eyes at the atrocious way in which _the Lestrade boy_ chose to speak and decided to pretend he hadn't spoken in the first place. "We'll do the project over Macbeth-"

"Aw, c'mon, Mycroft. I'm just making small talk. What'd you do? Do anything fun?"

"Macbeth is a good topic and if we structure our essay correctly-"

"Did you go to the cinema?"

"- we won't have to worry about utilizing modern representations of our topic because we can-"

"Maybe the mall?"

"-tie it in with Shakespeare's misogynistic attitude toward women-"

"Read any good books?" Greg finally asked, his ever-present grin only widening the longer Mycroft ignored him, as if Mycroft were doing something very hilarious and cute.

Mycroft cut off his monologue about their assignment and fixed Greg with a look he'd perfected when taking care of Sherlock. It was a "stop being an annoying little shit" look and in Mycroft's experience it worked a treat.

"Gregory. I don't want to talk about what I did or did not do this weekend. I don't want to make inane small talk with you. I want to work on our assignment with as little interaction between us as possible and complete it by Wednesday so I can focus on other projects. Is that clear?"

"Perfectly." Greg promptly responded and Mycroft stared at him a second longer, unsure if he'd got the message before turning back to the handout Mr. Beamer had given them.

"You…uhm…you have…really pretty eyes, you know."

Mycroft froze, pencil poised over his paper, before turning to Greg Lestrade with wide, apparently _pretty_, eyes.

"I _beg_ your pardon?"

For the first time in their acquaintance, Greg actually looked nervous at Mycroft's frosty tone being directed at him and fidgeted in his seat.

"I…I said you have really pretty eyes." He swallowed nervously and Mycroft watched Greg's eyes dart between each of his own. "They're all green like…like fresh leaves." He responded, voice unnaturally breathy and Mycroft frowned. He wasn't sure he liked the color of his eyes being compared to leaves, however _fresh_ those leaves might be. Whatever _that_ meant anyway, he mentally added.

And he _certainly_ didn't want Greg Lestrade chatting him up.

He stood from his desk and Greg looked momentarily panicked.

"I do _not_ think it is a good idea for us to continue working on this project together." Mycroft announced, sweeping his books up before marching determinedly to the front of the room to consult with Mr. Beamer on working alone, or even possibly switching partners, but there was no way he could continue working with…with _that boy._

* * *

Greg watched Mycroft walk off, his regal nose stuck in the air, and slumped in his seat, internally berating himself.

He'd really blown it that time. What the hell had he been thinking? _Fresh leaves?_ Who the fuck said something like that?

No wonder Mycroft had walked away.

_Well, damn._


	7. Freak

The first time it happened, Sherlock was in the middle of a crowd of his peers and yet very, very alone.

_Alone_ was a place he was becoming familiar with, both by his own choice and by the alienation from the rest of the children in his year: the term had barely begun and already everyone knew Sherlock Holmes was different.

He was very smart and the teacher was always praising him for his intelligence and using Sherlock as a model example to the other students of how things should be done. That _single-handedly_ would have isolated him from everyone else…but there was more.

Sherlock never smiled or laughed at jokes. He was always scowling and looked unfriendly and no one really liked to talk to him.

And even when they _did_ talk to him, his classmates didn't understand what he said since he used big words they didn't know.

And Sherlock never wanted to play games with anyone, even when the teacher tried to make him. He'd kick up a big fuss or, if really forced, stand in one position with his arms crossed and refuse to participate.

So it was no wonder that one day…

"Freak."

It was just one word, muttered as the boy walked away after half-heartedly trying and failing to get Sherlock to play football with the rest of them. Sherlock had still heard him, though, and his head popped up from where it'd been bowed over his novel, staring after the boy, young mind already assessing all the reasons he would've been called something like that.

Later that day, at home, Sherlock looked the word up in his dictionary.

_Freak (noun)_

_A thing, person, animal, or event that is extremely unusual or unlikely, and not like any other of its type_

He'd sat in his bedroom, book in lap, and realized- really realized- he was different from everyone else.

Mycroft had already warned him this would happen, that he'd be different from all the other children. He'd sat Sherlock down a week before the first day of school and explained this undeniable fact to him.

"But let them sneer." Mycroft had counseled, speaking from years of experience. "Nothing they say can hurt you, Sherlock, so long as you don't let it. And you shouldn't let it. Don't let small minded people have power over you. They're ignorant and aren't worth it."

Sherlock had taken his older brother's advice to heart and, when the other children picked up the word and began calling him by it, he just accepted it.

"Freak."

It couldn't hurt him.

"Freak!"

Not if he didn't allow it to.

* * *

"Hey, freak!"

Sherlock heard the moniker he was starting to understand would probably be _his_ the rest of his life, but kept his head down, ignoring the loud trio of boys, and continued collecting the soil sample he wanted.

Beside him, John paused in his savage hacking of the dry, brown dirt and looked up at the boys.

They were in their year, but from a different class, and everyone was scared of them. The two shorter boys, Carl and Steven, were tolerable on their own, if rather brutish and cruel, but when they were with Edmund…

"Hey! Didn't you hear us, _freak_?" Edmund sneered, kicking at the dirt, sending little dust clouds flying into their faces which made John sneeze.

Edmund was taller and wider than any of the other kids in their year, and he used this to his advantage, mainly when he pushed and shoved the other kids around. Sherlock knew Edmund's mother had abandoned her family, that Edmund was being raised by his grandparents, and had three older brothers who preferred to use Edmund as their own personal punching bag. Sherlock had made the mistake of telling Edmund this when the taller boy had taunted him for not wanting to play rugby with the other boys.

Edmund had hated Sherlock ever since and singled him out for his heckling at every opportunity. He'd never done it in front of John before though.

Despairingly, Sherlock wondered if John would leave him. Now he knew what the other kids called Sherlock, John wouldn't want to be friends with such a…a freak.

John stood up.

It was just as well, Sherlock told himself, chin wobbling only the tiniest bit before he tamped down on that useless emotion. He would _not_ cry in front of those boys and John while John left him. He continued unconcernedly hacking at the hard soil, determined not to watch John walk away from him- or worse, turn on him, laugh, and call him a freak too.

"What did you call him?" John asked angrily, hands balling into fists at his sides as he stood between Sherlock and the bullies.

Edmund smirked. "I called him a _freak_ because that's what he is. An' you shouldn't-"

_WHACK_!

Sherlock jolted and looked up in time to see blood gush from Edmund's nose, spattering to the ground below and soaking into the dirt. Wide-eyed, Sherlock stared from John who was hissing and shaking his hand to Carl and Steven, who looked oafish in their shock, to Edmund who was gripping his nose, tears streaming down his cheeks.

"He's not a _freak_." John spat heatedly, taking a menacing step toward the boys- and teachers were suddenly swarming over them, placing an arm around Edmund's shoulders and whisking him away, grabbing John by the arm and marching him off the playground…and leaving Sherlock still sitting in the dirt, stunned and staring at the blood still left on the ground.

* * *

John didn't come back to class when everyone went inside and Sherlock's demands to be told what had happened to his friend went unanswered.

When Sherlock finally accomplished getting sent to the headmaster's office himself (the ink stain on the ceiling would never come out, of that he was certain) it was to find John had been picked up early by his mother and wouldn't be allowed to return to school for a week.

* * *

Mycroft worriedly glanced at his little brother. The two boys were dining alone as Father was away again and Mummy didn't want to leave her bed, and usually this meant Sherlock and Mycroft told each other about their day which typically led to either arguments or discussions about experiments or Mycroft explaining topics Sherlock didn't understand yet. Tonight, Sherlock listlessly picked at his food, miserable expression on his face, and hadn't said a word since sitting down.

"What's wrong, 'lock?"

Sherlock seemed to come out of a trance and frowned across at Mycroft. "Hm?"

Mycroft realized something was seriously wrong. He never had to repeat himself with his brother. "What's wrong, Sherlock?"

Sherlock pushed his plate away and slumped back in his chair. "John got in a fight at school today."

"Oh." That wasn't what Mycroft had been expecting. "With whom?"

"Edmund." Sherlock responded dejectedly.

Mycroft waited for more information. When none was forthcoming, he prodded his brother. "What happened?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Edmund called me a freak and John…fought him. Hit him on the nose."

"So, John defended you?" When Sherlock nodded Mycroft still found himself at a loss as to what the problem was. "Did you get in trouble?" Not only would Sherlock not have cared if he got in trouble, Mycroft knew there would have been a call from the school if Sherlock had got in trouble for the fight, but it never hurt to ask.

Sherlock shook his head. "No…but John did. He got suspended for a week and his mom came early to pick him up." The smaller boy gave Mycroft a tortured look. "What if he's mad at me now for getting him in trouble? What if he doesn't want to be my friend because of it?"

"Sherlock, you're not the one who got him in trouble and I…highly doubt…" Mycroft began reasonably, only to trail off as Sherlock's lower lip suddenly wobbled and he buried his curly head in his arms.

Mycroft couldn't make out what Sherlock said next, muffled and tear-clogged as the words were, but he caught the words "only" and "friend" as well as "freak," "not worth the effort," and "angry."

Mycroft helplessly watching his little brother sob for a few seconds before an idea came to him and he pushed back from the table. "Come on, Sherlock. I know how to fix this."

* * *

Mrs. Watson picked up on the third ring. "Hello?"

"Mrs. Watson? This is Mycroft Holmes."

"Mycroft? _Oh_! _Mycroft_! Yes, yes, Sherlock's older brother, I remember now. How are you, dear?"

"I'm very well, thank you. I phoned because Sherlock told me John had a fight at school today."

"Yes…yes, he did. John told me he was defending Sherlock from bullies."

"That's what he told me as well and I'm afraid Sherlock's rather upset about it. He was hoping to speak to John?"

"Sure. Let me get him, dear."

Mycroft handed Sherlock the phone and his little brother gripped it with white-knuckled hands as he waited for John to come on the line.

"Sherlock?"

"John! Are you ok?" Sherlock asked anxiously.

"Mm. My hand hurts a little but mum gave me an ice pack to put on. I don't think anything's broken but it's really bruised. You'll like looking at it but you can't _poke_ it." He added severely.

Sherlock listened to John breathe for a few seconds before working up his courage. "Are you mad at me?"

"Why would I be mad at you?" John sounded genuinely puzzled and the fluttery, panicked feeling in Sherlock's chest lessened. Mycroft smiled and left his brother to continue his call in peace.

"You got in trouble because of me. You shouldn't have done that."

"They shouldn't have said what they did about you." John replied staunchly. "Even mum said it was badly done of them and I didn't get in trouble. Just from the school. Mum even took me for ice cream afterwards 'cause she said I did a good job standing up to them but that I shouldn't be fighting unless it was a good reason. Which that was. And Harry said it sounded like I landed the punch awesomely. She's the one who taught me…"

Sherlock relaxed as he listened to John ramble about how Harry had taught him to fight and what flavor ice cream he'd got after school and why.

"We didn't finish your experiment." John said suddenly and Sherlock jerked back to attention.

"Oh. We can do that when you get back." He promised and he just _knew_ John was smiling at the other end of the line.

"Great! Ok. I gotta go, Sherlock. Harry wants the phone to call her _girlfriend_."

"Ok. Goodbye-

"Sherlock!"

"Yeah?"

"I don't think you're a freak."

Sherlock gaped like a landed fish and he couldn't have responded to John if he wanted to, only mouth wordlessly into the phone.

"I think…I think you're _amazing_."

"_Awww! Johnny's talking to his boyfriend!"_

"Harry- get off!" John cried and Sherlock listened to the siblings scuffle for control of the phone.

"_Give it to me, you little runt! I've got to phone Sheila!"_

"No! I was talking to Sherlock-"

"_You've been on 10 minutes- it's my turn now!" _

"Ow! _Harry_! I gotta go, Sherlock!" John choked out before the line went dead, leaving Sherlock clutching the phone, a wide, stupid grin plastered on his face.

* * *

Mycroft looked up as Sherlock wandered into his bedroom, a small, happy smile still playing around his lips.

"Is John ok?"

"Mm-hmm. He's not allowed back to school but I'm going to collect his work for him and take it to him."

"Did you ask Mrs. Watson if you could?"

"Yes." Sherlock lied, flopping onto Mycroft's bed and stretching himself out, closing his eyes and replaying his conversation with John again.

"_I think you're amazing."_

He grinned, and across the room Mycroft indulgently rolled his eyes and buried himself in his book again.


	8. John's House

When Sherlock pertly knocked on the front door of John Watson's house- they didn't have a bell- no one came to answer.

He _knew_ someone was home as he could _hear_ the telly playing inside- rather loudly- and a few raised voices and laughter, but no one seemed to have heard his knock. Frowning, he knocked again, louder, making his knuckles sting, and took the opportunity as he waited to glance around.

John Watson's house was in a…a _nice_ neighborhood, Sherlock supposed. His driver hadn't liked it, had enabled the door locks as they turned down John's street, lips pursed in disapproval. It all looked a bit shabby, Sherlock supposed, taking note of the hedgerows that needed trimming, the slightly overgrown grass, the somewhat old and faded house paint, and the sagging shutters that needed a good screwing in. It all just felt rather…neglected. Not poor, exactly, but…old.

Sherlock, huffing in annoyance, knocked yet again- thinking of and then dismissing kicking at the door until someone answered him. That move, though undoubtedly accomplishing his goal of getting inside, would also probably anger John's mother and father and Sherlock very much wanted to be invited back to see his friend.

Just when Sherlock was resolving to knock again, the door abruptly swung open, revealing an older girl- older than Mycroft- short, with long blonde hair and the same blue eyes as John which were judgmentally sizing Sherlock up.

His sister, Harry. Obviously, Sherlock concluded.

"We don't want any of whatever it is you're selling." She said rudely.

"I'm not-"

The door slammed in his face before Sherlock could finish his sentence and what little patience he'd been maintaining over the situation evaporated.

He unreservedly banged on the door with his fist and it was jerked open, Harry Watson glaring at him menacingly.

"Bugger off, kid!"

"I'm not selling anything." Sherlock replied scathingly. "I'm John's friend, Sherlock Holmes, and I've-

"Oh, lord." Harry sighed in frustration, throwing the door open and walking away, shouting as she went. "_Oi! John! Your friend's here!"_

"Sherlock?"

John scooted off the sofa, a mindless cartoon playing on the telly, and darted around Harry, face breaking into a wide smile at the sight of his friend. "What're you doing here?"

"I brought your school work for you." Sherlock said, handing over the collection of papers for John. "That way you won't fall behind and have to make it all up."

"Thanks." John studied the papers, making a face at some of the worksheets.

"I could help you, if you want." Sherlock offered awkwardly, not sure that was what was wrong, but when John beamed at him he realized he'd said the right thing.

"Sure. Hey, let me show you-"

"John, you didn't tell me you invited someone over." Mrs. Watson scolded as she walked into the foyer, drying her hands on a flannel, bringing with her the delicious smell of roast and potatoes.

"Sorry, mum. Sherlock brought me my work from today. Is it ok if he stays for dinner?" John turned pleading blue eyes to his mother who eyed him sternly.

Sherlock swallowed nervously, glancing from mother to son with anxious eyes. Mrs. Watson didn't look the mean type but…

Finally, Mrs. Watson smiled, ruffling John's hair affectionately (earning herself a mean scowl from her embarrassed son) before turning to Sherlock. "I don't think we've been properly introduced, Sherlock. I'm Mrs. Watson."

"Sherlock Holmes." Sherlock said, sticking out his hand and Mrs. Watson shook it, looking amused.

"Can you stay for dinner, Sherlock?"

"Yes." Sherlock replied promptly, almost vibrating in excitement at the idea. He felt John do a little excited hop beside him.

"I guess it's all right then. _So long as you ask your mother!"_ Mrs. Watson had to raise her voice to be heard over John's cheer and he happily grabbed Sherlock's hand.

"Come on, Sherlock! I'll show you my room."

"Thank you, Mrs. Watson." Sherlock yelled behind him as he allowed John to drag him down the hallway.

"Not a problem, dear." She sighed, shaking her head at the oddness of the Holmes boys before walking back into the kitchen. "Harry! I told you to come help me with dinner."

"_Muuuuum_!"

* * *

John's bedroom, situated at the back of the box-y house, was small and cramped but relatively clean, with just a few dirty clothes scattered about. Sherlock never picked up his own clothes, there was a maid for that, and he watched John kick a pair of jeans out of their way as they stepped inside.

There was an old television set in the corner atop a dresser with a game system so old Sherlock didn't recognize it hooked to it, trailing wires and controllers in a jumbled mess. John's bed was pushed against one wall to give the illusion of more space in the little room and bright posters decorated the walls above it- Harry Potter, video game characters Sherlock didn't recognize, and some sort of cars. There was a small bookshelf beside the bed with books stuffed and crammed into every shelf and a bright red rug covered the worn hardwood floor where various action men were scattered.

Finishing his perusal and looking back at John, Sherlock became aware that John was watching him anxiously, worriedly.

"What?"

"I know it's not…" John bit his lip and plucked at the bright blue duvet on his bed. "I mean. We don't…don't have a lot of money and it's not as big as _your_ room…"

Sherlock glanced around the room again before giving John a smile. "I think it's…it's _amazing_."

John grinned at him, relieved. "Really?"

"Of course."

"Good. Oh! Look at my hand!" John ordered eagerly, suddenly remembering his bruised knuckles which had just turned even cooler looking overnight.

As Sherlock crowded closer, eyes growing big at the mottled black, blue, and green colors that painted his friend's skin, John jerked his hand out of reach and gave Sherlock a severe look.

"Don't touch it, though!"

"Okay." Sherlock agreed, knowing he'd eventually be able to convince John to at least let him poke it _a bit, _so long as he said it was for an experiment.

* * *

"Holmes residence."

"Mycroft."

"Sherlock! Where are you? I-"

"I'm staying for dinner at John's." Sherlock announced without ceremony before hanging up and turning to look at a speechless Mrs. Watson, smiling innocently and handing her the phone. "He'll make sure Mummy knows." He assured her confidently before running back to John's room where John had turned on the Super Nintendo and was teaching Sherlock how to play _Contra_.


	9. At the Library

**I had a guest reviewer comment that my version of Greg Lestrade was very out-of-character and I want to take a moment to address that. I think the Greg Lestrade we see in BBC's Sherlock has been jaded by life and all that he's seen in his line of work. He's worn down, trying to do good, but stressed by his job and his failing marriage. In these chapters, I'm trying to write a Greg Lestrade that hasn't been beaten and tossed around by life yet. He's still fresh and golden, positive and outgoing, and just an all-around normal teenager. Or well, that's my aim when writing him. :)**

* * *

Greg growled and scrubbed out the line he'd just painstakingly finished writing, blowing hard at the little eraser shavings before flinging his pencil down in disgust. Ignoring the stern look the librarian gave him, Greg slumped back in his hard, wooden chair in defeat. Trust Mycroft sodding Holmes to turn a simple four-page essay on a Shakespearean play into the hardest assignment of Greg's entire school career.

And, after setting the task so high, the genius sod wasn't even _helping_ him with it.

Figured.

Greg hadn't spoken to Mycroft ever since the "your eyes look like fresh leaves" catastrophe that day in class. He was fairly certain the genius was purposefully avoiding him since Mr. Beamer had refused to allow Mycroft to work alone, then refused- despite Mycroft's pleading- to let him switch partners with someone else. _Anyone_ else.

Greg had listened to Mycroft try and talk his way out of working with him, ears burning, stomach twisting in abject mortification. Half the class had been listening too, whispering and shooting glances between Mycroft's rigid back and Greg's red face as he superficially wrote nonsense in his notebook just to look busy and unconcerned about the whole thing.

Which he had been anything but.

He sighed miserably and glanced toward the front of the library-

And immediately jerked into an upright position, banging his knee on the bottom of the table, adrenaline surging through his veins at the sight of Mycroft Holmes striding into the library.

Mycroft, still in his school uniform, had his bag slung over his shoulder with two little boys in tow. He hadn't seen Greg yet and Greg took the opportunity to hastily smooth his hair down and arrange the papers scattered over his table to make it look like he'd actually been accomplishing something before Mycroft spotted him.

He studiously bent over his portion of the essay but kept his eyes fixed on the trio.

Mycroft paused and stooped over, grabbing the shorter of the boys, the one with wildly curling brown hair, and spoke sternly to him.

"Stay out of trouble." He ordered, hushed voice carrying even in the quiet library. "I mean it, Sherlock. I won't bring you back with me if you cause trouble. Even if father _is_ home."

The little boy tried to pull away but Mycroft tightened his grip.

"Did you-"

"_Yes_. I heard you." The little boy replied, irritated. Mycroft let him jerk away.

"The encyclopedias are that way," Mycroft said, gesturing, "but they aren't as good as what we have-"

"Do they have Choose Your Own Adventure books?" The little blonde haired boy piped up.

This seemed to trip Mycroft up. "I'm not sure. The librarian will-"

"Come on, John." The curly-haired boy demanded imperiously, slipping his hand into the other boy's. "We'll find them."

"Stay out of trouble." Mycroft whisper-shouted after them but the two boys paid him no attention.

Greg quickly looked down as Mycroft turned in his direction. He swallowed around a suddenly dry throat, breath freezing, waiting until Mycroft was almost level with his table before looking up, trying to seem nonchalant, and "accidentally" spotted Mycroft- who'd already seen him and was looking very put-out.

"H-hey, Mycroft." Greg smiled, receiving a curt nod, and Mycroft kept walking, crushing Greg's fledgling hope.

He stayed frozen in his little tableau, heart plummeting, as Mycroft seated himself a few tables away, his back to Greg, and started laying out his books and things.

Eventually, Greg stowed away his squashed pride and hurt feelings, and tried to work on his essay. But his eyes kept darting from his paper to Mycroft without his consent, and when he saw Mycroft pull their English textbook from his bag, Greg saw his opening.

* * *

"Working on our essay?" He asked, faking a grin which was wasted as Mycroft sighed and kept writing.

"Yes."

Greg nodded and shifted uneasily from foot to foot as he watched Mycroft write. "Me too."

Silence.

"Any luck with it?"

"Yes."

"Awesome."

Mycroft kept writing and Greg had ran out of things to say.

_God, he was hopeless at this_. He'd been trying to get Mycroft Holmes to notice him for weeks now with no luck. It was crushing. Greg knew he was reasonably good-looking- Martin Frasier in his math class had told him so- and he was funny. Everyone laughed at his jokes, thought he was a good bloke…everyone except Mycroft.

Greg bit his lip and strained his brain to think of something to say to Mycroft, something to hold his interest. Just one more try-

"Did you need something?" Mycroft asked suddenly, raising his head and pinning Greg with an aggravated stare.

"We need to work on our essay together." Greg blurted, then winced when Mycroft's eyes narrowed.

_Well done, idiot._

"You're having problems with it, aren't you?" The teenager asked Greg, smirking slightly.

"_No_." Greg replied, probably a bit _too _defensively, but he didn't want to look stupid in front of Mycroft. "It's just…we'll get a bad grade if it looks like we didn't work on it together. Participation's 20% of the grade."

"We _are_ both participating." Mycroft said practically. "You have your portion, and I have mine. I don't see why we have to be _together_ to accomplish our goal of completing the essay."

"It won't read the same." Greg replied. "Mine'll sound like me and yours will sound…like you. Mr. Beamer'll be able to tell and we'll get marked down for it."

Mycroft looked back down at his own precious essay and Greg could almost _see_ the moment he capitulated.

"Fine."

* * *

Sherlock glanced down at John who, sat on the carpet in the children's section of the library, was deeply engrossed in his Choose Your Own Adventure novel. It looked horribly boring. There was a castle splashed across the front of it, complete with knights, a long-haired princess, and an assortment of magical creatures.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. He never liked the CYOA books- they were repetitive and it was always too easy for him to guess where the plot would end up. John loved them, though, and even sometimes-

"Sherlock? Should I go back the way I came or make a deal with the dwarf?" John asked, frowning up at his friend.

"Make the deal." Sherlock counseled wisely, settling himself down beside his friend on the carpet. John beamed at him and turned so Sherlock could see the book as well.

Sherlock obediently bent his head over the battered paperback, not really surprised when, a page and a half later, the dwarf betrayed John, leaving him stumbling around in the dark dungeons until he died, and he was forced to start over.

"Let's do something else." Sherlock suggested quickly, before John could flip to the front page again.

"What?" John, despite repeated instances, hadn't yet learned that any plan of Sherlock's was likely to get them both in trouble and was still eager to follow in his friend's footsteps.

Sherlock's eyes zoomed around the library speculatively, before lighting up. "Follow me."

* * *

Mycroft was uncomfortable.

It was quiet in the library, only the soft scratching of their pencils and the gentle ruffling of papers broke the silence. Sometimes Greg took a deep breath, ruffled his hair, then more silence.

It was nice- and it made Mycroft extremely troubled.

He was surprised to find that, in the silence of the library, he sort of almost…._liked_ Greg Lestrade.

Not really. Not a lot or anything like that but… When Greg wasn't staring at him or grinning and laughing or asking those never-ending, stupid questions…when he wasn't being annoying, Mycroft somewhat liked his company.

Greg was silent and didn't fidget unnecessarily. He worked hard, too, and didn't goof around or try and distract Mycroft from his work. Even when he was frustrated and confused about what he was writing, his annoyance was unobtrusive. Mycroft could actually hear himself think around Greg, unlike most people, when he wasn't being aggravating.

He didn't like it. He wanted to go back to entirely hating Greg. It was more relaxing.

"How're you coming?" Greg asked tiredly, throwing down his pencil, and Mycroft blinked, startled out of his thoughts.

"Um…" He looked down at his paper, realizing he hadn't written anything in the past five minutes. "I've already finished." He lied.

"Great. Can I look it over? "Greg reached for Mycroft's paper and Mycroft panicked, snatching it away and out of Greg's reach before Greg could see.

"Oi! What's your problem?"

"_Get down from there this instant!"_

Mycroft jumped up at the sound of the librarian's angry shout, already knowing to whom she was yelling. Greg, puzzled, was right on his heels.

Rounding the corner, Mycroft didn't at first see what the problem was.

Then he looked up.

"Get down! _Now_! You heathens!"

Perched on the top shelf of one of the bookcases, eight feet above the ground, Sherlock and John grinned down at everyone, swinging their feet unconcernedly.

After much angry shouting, Mycroft trying to calm the irate librarian while ordering his little brother _down_, and after much cackling from two self-satisfied little boys, Greg managed to fetch one of the ladders and rolled it over. He held it steady while John and Sherlock climbed down and Mycroft continued to courteously apologize to the librarian.

The quartet were marched from the library by the elderly lady. Mycroft had managed to talk her out of calling the police, promising they were just leaving.

"But I didn't get my book!" John had protested, earning himself a murderous glare from Mycroft, whose neck and ears were red in embarrassment and anger.

"Think you're shit out of luck on that one, mate." Greg smirked at John as he gathered up his books, and John grinned, unconcerned.

"I told you, Sherlock." Mycroft hissed once the door closed behind them. "I told you to stay out of trouble."

"I was bored." Came the petulant reply and Mycroft wondered how old he would be before his little brother succeeded in giving him a heart attack.

Watching as Sherlock shared a conspiratorial grin with John Watson, Mycroft despaired.


	10. Wake Up, Mycroft

**Thanks for all the support and love for these little kid!lock drabbles. Much love goes to each and every one of you :)**

* * *

Sherlock, huddled beneath his thick, downy duvet in the darkness of his room, listened to his parents fighting and fervently wished to be somewhere else, _anywhere_ else, but where he was.

His mother was crying. He could hear it in the indistinct murmur of her voice as it filtered from his parent's bedroom upstairs. Her muffled sobbing could be heard beneath the sounds of his father's angry shouting.

"- why you have to be so _stupid_ and useless-"

Sherlock whimpered and curled into a tighter ball, hugging his knees to his chest, and shut his eyes as if that simple act could shut away the unpleasantness upstairs. He knew it couldn't. It'd be a much nicer world, he thought as the smack of glass on wood echoed from above, if it could work.

He knew better, though.

Mycroft had told him Father was an alcoholic and explained about addiction and how many times since Mycroft could remember that Father had tried different methods of recovery and how each and every one had failed.

"Why didn't any of them work?" Sherlock had asked, and Mycroft's face had gone dark and angry.

"It's not the _treatments_, Sherlock." He'd explained bitterly. "It's _Father_. He doesn't _want_ them to work because he doesn't really care about getting better. He doesn't care about any of us."

Now, listening as his father continued to yell at and berate his mother, reducing her to tears, knowing she wouldn't leave her room again until at least a week after Father left, Sherlock could easily believe it. He and Mycroft had planned in advance when they'd heard Father was returning and had therefore been away most of the evening, sparing themselves the brunt of their father's abuse.

He had apparently directed it, in their absence, to their mother. As was usual.

He was leaving tomorrow afternoon, Sherlock reminded himself, squeezing his hands into fists against his legs. He was leaving and wouldn't be back for a few more weeks.

But first, there was a family breakfast. His heart lurched in dread.

It was when he heard the first, sharp _crack_ of flesh on flesh that Sherlock couldn't take it anymore. He threw back his covers and climbed from the bed, heart thumping, stomach twisting itself in knots until he thought he'd be sick.

He quietly padded down the hall, staying close to the wall and in the shadows, feeling not unlike a small animal, hunted, escaping from the predator with the razor sharp teeth.

Mycroft's bedroom door was closed and Sherlock silently twisted the handle, slipping inside and shutting it quietly behind him, before padding to the edge of the bed. He stared intently at his sleeping brother, mentally willing him to wake up.

The minutes trickled past. It was quiet in Mycroft's bedroom, an oasis of calm while a storm raged above them, and Sherlock felt his eyelids drooping in exhaustion.

He really wished Mycroft would wake up. He didn't want to have to go back to his bedroom and listen. He'd had to overhear too many similar nights before. Tonight…just no.

Sherlock tentatively reached out a hand to shake Mycroft, urge him from his slumber, but drew back at the last second, unable to break an unspoken, self-imposed taboo which he himself didn't understand. Somehow, it was fine if Mycroft woke on his own and invited him to stay, but quite another thing if Sherlock woke him.

He didn't understand why he felt that way. He just knew he did, and he couldn't purposefully wake Mycroft. Not on these nights.

Biting his lip, Sherlock curled his bare toes into the plush carpet in an effort to warm them, all the while mentally chanting _Wake up, Mycroft. Wake up, Mycroft. Wake up, wake up, wake up…_

Mycroft, however, slept on, unaware of the small, curly-haired, pajama-clad figure by his bed who was currently in quandary.

Finally, Sherlock was forced to concede defeat. Mycroft wasn't waking up. Shoulders slumping, chest feeling horrible and hollow, he began a slow shuffle from the room.

Mycroft snorted suddenly, jerking beneath his sheets, and Sherlock's heart leapt. He didn't _run_ back to the bed, but he _did_ walk very, very quickly back into Mycroft's line of sight.

"Sherlock?" Mycroft asked sleepily, rubbing at his eyes and blinking blearily at his little brother. Without asking a question, he tossed back the covers and allowed Sherlock to scramble up onto the bed and clamber over him, groaning and hissing when bony little knees connected with the soft flesh of his thighs.

"Yeah?" He asked groggily, twitching the covers back over them and turning to his brother, letting the usually stroppy, arrogant little sod roll into his arms and burrow his face in Mycroft's chest. He ran a warm hand ran up Sherlock's back, stroking through his tangled curls, and Sherlock allowed Mycroft to pet him. He'd pretend tomorrow this hadn't happened, and Mycroft knew better than to ever, _ever_ mention it.

Neither brother said another word, none were needed, and eventually, they both drifted to sleep.


	11. A Question of Caring

Mycroft briskly walked down the hallway, lips thinned down into white slashes, movements jerky in agitation and fury. He'd never been more humiliated in his life. He could still hear the titters, the scandalous "_oooh's_" of his peers, the jests-

He slapped open the door to the boy's loo and locked it behind him, sinking gratefully against it. He knew he couldn't stay here long. Lunch was almost over and people would be wanting the loo. But he had a few minutes, a few minutes of blessed peace and he was going to make the most of it.

This was all Gregory Lestrade's fault.

Even thinking about that grinning idiot made Mycroft's throat close up and he could hear his heart pounding in his ears. He threw his backpack against the far wall, immediately regretting his outburst, and closed his eyes, breathing deeply and trying to calm down.

It didn't matter, he told himself. It didn't matter.

It didn't matter that Greg had embarrassed him in front of their entire English Literature class.

It didn't matter that everyone now thought they were dating.

_Dating_! Mycroft's mouth twisted in disgust. As if he would date that…that…_person_. It was laughable, is what it was.

He jumped at the tentative knock on the loo door.

"Mycroft?"

_Him_. Mycroft crossed his arms and silently glared at the graffiti-riddled door.

"Mycroft? You in there?"

Mycroft refused to respond, nostrils flaring in anger. He heard Greg sigh.

"I'm sorry, Mycroft. I…I didn't mean to lose it."

"_Lose it_?" Mycroft exclaimed incredulously, jerking open the loo door and furiously glaring at Greg who, not expecting to be confronted with the angry Holmes, took a step back. "_Lose it_? You call fumbling all over yourself like some absurd moron, blushing and stuttering and making calf eyes at me the entire time I was speaking _losing it?!"_

Greg flushed a ruddy color which spread from his neck in blotches. "I didn't mean to-"

Mycroft snorted.

"I _didn't_! I just got nervous standin' in front of everyone giggling and…and I just lost my words." He tactfully didn't respond to the accusation of the calf eyes being made. That particular barb had sank deep, just as Mycroft had meant it to, and was already smarting.

"I don't care!" Mycroft snapped. "I knew our working on this project together would be a disaster. You acted ridiculous and now everyone thinks we're…." He broke off, shaking his head, unable to say the words.

Greg flushed harder.

Mycroft pivoted, stalking back into the loo to retrieve his pack as the bell rang, signaling the last period of the day. It was only when he heard the door close on the rising tide of hundreds of voices in the hallway that he realized Greg had followed him in.

"I'm sorry, Mycroft." He said softly, but Mycroft was too angry.

His eyes averted, Mycroft shoved past Greg, slinging his pack onto his shoulder at the same time.

"Hey- wait!-" Greg shouted, following him out and snagging his arm, intent on pulling him around and trying to make Mycroft understand-

"Oohh! Mycroft and Greg! Been snogging in the loo?" Someone called out and laughter erupted around the two boys.

"Make way for the two _luuurve_ birds!"

Greg's hand weakly fell away from Mycroft's arm as the red-headed teen regally straightened his shoulders, thrust his chin forward, and stalked away to the sound of everyone's continued laughter.

Greg stared after Mycroft's retreating back until one of his friends shoved him, knocking him out of his depressing thoughts. "Oi! Didn't know you was dating the rich bastard!"

"M'not." Greg grumbled, pulling away from his friend and stalking away.

* * *

"Get out, Sherlock." Mycroft snapped, flinging open the door to his bedroom and tossing his pack to the side.

His little brother scowled up at him, not moving from his position on the carpet where he'd spread out the dismembered pieces of a small skeleton- cat, Mycroft recognized- and was painstakingly putting it together.

"What's wrong with you?"

"Get out." Mycroft snarled back, jerking at his tie. "Why are you doing this in my room? You have a worktable in your own room."

Sherlock didn't move and continued to stare solemnly at him.

"Fine. Stay. Go. I don't care."

Sherlock took Mycroft at his word and turned back to his cat skeleton, picking up a paw and staring at it intently.

Mycroft huffed and flung himself backward onto his bed, bouncing limply, before flinging an arm over his face. His thoughts swirled around what had happened that day- the giggles and gleeful looks from his classmates, the whispers which he'd pretended to ignore but had heard all the same.

Then there was Greg- the way he'd looked.

The way he'd looked at Mycroft.

It made Mycroft feel agitated and funny, annoyed and…flattered.

He hated it.

The bed dipped beside him and he felt Sherlock shuffle close to him.

"Mycroft?"

"Mm?"

"Are you ok?"

"Yes."

Sherlock paused. "You don't sound ok."

"It was just something that happened at school today. I'm fine."

"Oh."

Mycroft lifted his arm and cracked open an eye to find Sherlock still knelt beside him on the bed, his little face creased in concern, eyes worried. Mycroft sighed.

"It was Gregory Lestrade-"

"The poor boy from the library?"

"He's not _very_ poor-"

"His trainers were at least two years old, his jeans fraying at the edges. His shirt was secondhand- probably third hand, to be more accurate. His book bag was his older brothers at one point-"

"I know all that." Mycroft cut him off. "It's the 'grunge' look, Sherlock. It's _fashion_, not a way of life." He hoped Sherlock dropped the subject. He didn't have the patience to give a deduction lesson right now.

"Fashion?" It had been a vain hope, Mycroft realized. Sherlock never let anything go. "He _purposefully_ shops at secondhand stores and strives to look like he's one paycheck away from complete homelessness?"

"Yes."

"That's stupid." Sherlock muttered, before bouncing on his knees, jostling Mycroft. "What happened?"

Mycroft explained, in a quick monotone, how his and Greg's presentation had gone, how Greg had botched it up, then stared stupidly at Mycroft for the rest of the time. He edited some of the more perverted comments he'd heard from his classmates about he and Greg but concluded with their argument in the loo.

"Everyone believes we're…dating." Mycroft's disgust dripped from the word, his mouth twisting as if he'd tasted something bitter.

"But you're not. Why should you care what everyone thinks?" Sherlock asked reasonably. "You always told me not to care what other people thought. That it didn't matter."

"It doesn't."

"Then why do you care?"

"I don't."

"You do."

"I _don't_!"

"You _do_! Why?" Sherlock snickered. "Do you _like_ him?"

His patience snapped. Mycroft propelled himself up and began stuffing Sherlock's cat skeleton into a bag.

"Hey! _Stop_! I had most of the spine done!" Sherlock protested shrilly, jumping from the bed and snatching at the skeleton as it disappeared into the bag. Mycroft shoved the bag at Sherlock then marched him from the room.

"I. Don't. Care." He hissed before slamming the door in his little brother's face.

He'd just turned to walk away when, clear as day, came the sulky but precise rejoinder from behind the wood.

"_You. Do."_

* * *

**Ah, brotherly love :) And my poor little confused Mycroft. I love him so.**


	12. Physical Education

**Thanks everyone, for reading and taking the time to review! Maybe I don't say it enough, but I'm always humbled by the support I get for my stories. **

**That being said, any terms for football (or, as we call it, soccer) that I've messed up I take partial blame for and give Wikipedia the rest. :)  
**

* * *

"All right, Sherlock?"

Sherlock managed to throw John a painful smile as the blonde-haired boy raced past him, in hot pursuit of an out-of-control football. The rest of the kids thundered past Sherlock, in pursuit of John, and a few of the boys shoved Sherlock as they went past, knocking roughly into his shoulders and sending him stumbling backward. He righted himself before he fell and glared after the perpetrators but no one paid him any attention.

Sherlock, arms crossed, watched with disinterest as John, who had now secured the football, was making his way toward the goal.

It was too bright and hot. Sherlock was tired. And bored.

John was now yards from the goal, encouraged by the excited shouts from his teammates.

"Go, John!"

"Kick!"

"No- _Go_!"

"Kick it! Kick it!"

John kicked out, as hard as he could, face screwed up in concentration, and his cleat connected with the football with a dull _thump_-

Their goalkeeper, Davie, made a wild jump, straight into the air, arms waving wildly, trying to intercept it-

Only for the football to spin right over his head.

"Gooaaaal!"

"_Yes_!" John spun away from the goal, pumping his fist, and was immediately surrounded by his teammates.

"Way to go, John!"

Their Physical Education instructor blew his whistle, the shrill sound making Sherlock wince.

"Another point for the red team! Blue, in position! Holmes, get it in gear! I want to see those feet moving!"

Sherlock rolled his eyes but, knowing it was pointless to argue, strolled to join the rest of his team.

"Don't kick it to Sherlock." Camden (small, mean, came from a rich family, struggled with reading) said meanly, giving Sherlock a pointed, disgusted look.

"As if I want you to." Sherlock snapped back, but no one had time to respond. Amina kicked the ball in and the game was on.

Sherlock disliked sports. They were tedious, boisterous, made one tired and sweaty, and meant he was forced to play with numerous, jostling morons who had more brawn than brain and who generally liked hitting him when the PE instructor wasn't looking.

When he was forced to play- and he was _always_ forced to play- Sherlock stood on his own, arms crossed, refusing to actually participate and did as little as possible, only moving in order to avoid being hit by whatever ball they were playing with that day.

John, on the other hand, loved sports. The sweatier and dirtier they made him, the better he liked them. Already, his sandy-blonde hair was slicked to his forehead with sweat, his knees were grass stained, and there was a scrape on his elbow that needed to be disinfected and bandaged, not rubbed in the dirt some more.

Sherlock wrinkled his nose in disgust and John threw him a bright, mischievous smile before charging after Grace and the football.

Sherlock secretly felt this love of sports was John's one flaw, the one thing that kept John Watson from being absolutely perfect.

"Holmes! _Get moving_!"

Sherlock jogged half-heartedly down the pitch. Everyone else was already at the other end, jockeying for control of the football, kicking each other's shins and shouting at each other. He slowed to a walk and observed the melee in front of him, waiting for someone to emerge victorious.

This was so incredibly boring.

Sherlock heaved a sigh and glanced up at the cloudless sky, watching a bird wheeling overheard, trying to deduce what type it was by the way it flew-

"_Sherlock_!"

Sherlock turned at John's panicked shout-

Only to get _smacked_ in the face with the football.

Hard.

His head snapped back and he staggered backward, tripped over his feet, and landed on his arse in the grass. He gripped his face with both hands, distantly aware, through the high-pitched ringing in his ears, of the shrill whistle being blown, of his classmates running over to him.

Sherlock tried to think through the unexpected pain. His eyes were watering, his nose throbbing, and, disturbingly, he could _feel_ his teeth. His lower face felt wet and warm and he tasted blood.

A dull thud beside him signaled John had thrown himself down and warm, sweaty hands tried to pry Sherlock's own hands away from his face.

"Sherlock! Sherlock, are you all right?"

"Yee-es." Sherlock whined, trying to be stoic but failing rather miserably. John finally managed to wrench Sherlock's hands away and his eyes flared wide at the amount of blood covering his friend's face.

There was scattered laughter, a few mean snickers, but most of the kids looked more concerned at the sight of Sherlock's blood, which was still trickling from his nose and lip, than gleeful. One of the flightier girls had actually burst into tears and was off to the side, being consoled by her friends.

"Are you all right?" John's voice quavered slightly as he helped Sherlock sit up, gripping his hands, smearing blood between them.

"_Holmes_!"

Sherlock flinched away from the rough hands of the PE instructor as he knelt and probed at his face.

"Don't look broken. Better be sure. Come on, Holmes, up you get. Nurse's office."

"I'll take him." John announced quickly, placing a protective arm around Sherlock's shoulders and, when the PE instructor didn't protest, began steering Sherlock off the pitch.

"Are you ok?" John asked again, when they were out of sight of the pitch and making their slow way into the school. "Sherlock? Are you all right? Are you in pain? Does it-"

"Stop asking questions." Sherlock snapped, the throbbing pain in his face making him peevish, the embarrassment of the entire ordeal making him downright mean.

"M'sorry." John murmured, opening the door for his friend and helping him inside.

They walked down the quiet, deserted hallways in silence. Sherlock wiped his flowing eyes on the sleeve of his jumper, his nose still slightly dripping blood, his lip stinging when his tongue probed it inquisitively.

"It was Camden." John said quietly.

"What?"

"Camden. He's the one who kicked the ball at you."

Sherlock snorted, which was a mistake as the action made his nose suddenly _gush_ blood, spattering the floor and dripping down the front of his jumper. John cried out, and hurried forward, bundling the sleeve of his own jumper into a wad in his fist and using that to try and staunch the flow.

They stood in the deserted corridor, John holding Sherlock's nose with his wad of cotton, Sherlock frozen in place, not wanting to make matters worse.

"I'm sorry I didn't stop him." John finally said, a bit miserable his best friend had been hurt.

"Oo cahn't always b'theh, Jawn." Sherlock tried to reply.

"What?" John slowly removed his sleeve, cheered that no more blood oozed forth.

"You can't always be there, John."

His friend frowned. "I can."

"You can't."

"Can." John said firmly and Sherlock, looking into his blazing eyes, didn't have the heart to tell him he couldn't.

It made something warm thrive in his chest that John wanted to defend him, cared enough for him to do it, but it was a fool's errand. Everyone else in their class disliked Sherlock but stayed away from him when John was there. When John was out sick or his back was turned though…

"Come on," John said, taking Sherlock's hand in his. "Let's get you to the nurse."

* * *

Mycroft took one look at the blood splashed down the front of Sherlock's jumper and the rivulets of dried blood on his upper lip and chin and frowned.

"What happened?"

John, sat beside Sherlock on the crinkly-paper covered exam table in the nurse's office, quickly explained the situation and, while he talked, Mycroft's expression darkened.

Sherlock felt a distinct, pleasant thrill at the sight.

"He did this on purpose?"

John looked torn. "Yes…but-"

"You can't prove it." Sherlock finished quickly. "That's not the important thing. I'm fine. I _really_ don't need to be taking PE anymore, Mycroft. It's a waste of my time. I could be in another class or studying on my own, conducting my own experiments while all the other moro- _students_ run around."

Wide, hopeful eyes gazed back at Mycroft who, through his anger at the treatment of his little brother, could see the logic. Sherlock was already in good physical shape. He got most of his exercise from running about doing his experiments on God's living creatures and his friendship with John meant he was every once in a while obliged to play football with John when the other boy came to visit. Physical Education was not necessary for him to take.

And Mycroft remembered his own painful experiences with that particular "class." If he could spare Sherlock that discomfort, he would take it in a heartbeat.

"Leave it to me." He promised, and Sherlock beamed at him.

* * *

"Ah, Mycroft! Lovely to see you, dear!"

Mycroft pasted on his most convincing smile for Sherlock's headmistress and shook her hand when it was offered. She gestured for him to take a seat opposite her desk and settled herself behind it.

"What can I help you with, dear?"

He swallowed down the retort that she could stop calling him _dear_, for starters. "My brother was injured today while playing football with the rest of his class."

"Yes, Mr. Rosings- their instructor- told me. Nasty business, but unfortunately accidents do happen when children play together. We try and minimize that as much as possible, of course. You should remember. The children are taught proper etiquette-"

"Be that as it may, Sherlock was still injured." Mycroft cut in smoothly and the smile faltered on the Headmistress's face. "I feel it would be best if my brother no longer be forced to participate in Physical Education."

"Now, now, Mycroft, it was just an accident. There's no need to be overly dramatic." Mycroft grit his teeth at the woman's unctuous tone. "Besides, a bit of sport never hurt anyone and it will toughen Sherlock up. He's a growing boy and he needs the exercise. Fresh air. Sunlight."

"He gets plenty of that at home, madam. His PE class has ceased to be a safe place for him to engage in 'a bit of sport.' This is not the first time he has been injured in that class, but it _is_ the first time he was in such a harmful way. I will not stand by and allow my brother to be subjected to abuse in your school."

He saw the Headmistress swallow, her eyes flicking down to her desk before her phony smile was back in place.

"I think calling it '_abuse'_ is going rather far, don't you, Mycroft? It's just a few of the boys getting rougher than they should." She swallowed nervously again. "I'll instruct Mr. Rosings to speak to them-"

"No. With all due respect, madam, I feel the best option would be to remove Sherlock from that class and place him elsewhere."

"Place him elsewhere? And just where would you suggest, Mycroft?" The Headmistress's eyes narrowed and she gave Mycroft a sharp look. "This is a well-run, organized school. We do not leave children to their own devices and let them run about the building unattended. For any reason. Sherlock's place is with his class and under the watchful eye of his instructor." She sat back, tugging at her jacket fretfully. "I will inform Mr. Rosings that he needs to better instruct his class on proper decorum when playing sports-"

"That's a very fetching jacket."

She blinked at Mycroft, derailed in her rant, and stared at him a bit open-mouthed. "I beg your pardon?"

Mycroft smiled, steepling his hands beneath his chin. "Your jacket is very pretty."

"Oh. Well. Thank you, dear. Now, as I was saying-"

"Forgive me for being rude, but it must have cost quite a bit."

"A- a fair amount, I suppose. But with my salary-"

"Only you didn't pay for it with your salary, did you? You earn a modest income here but…there's _another_ source of income for you, yes?"

"I don't know what you're talking about."

Oh, but she did. Mycroft knew she did and his smile, as it spread across his face, was triumphant.

"Shall I tell my brother he now has a study hall period in the afternoons instead of Physical Education?" _Or do I reveal what I know?_

Mycroft watched the Headmistress squirm as she contemplated the situation, unwilling to bend but knowing she would be forced to capitulate. Mycroft, however, was patient. He knew how this would end.

She cleared her throat and gave him a very jumpy, fearful smile. "Sherlock is a very, very intelligent little boy and I think he would benefit more from a study hall period than- than PE. Give him more time to…well. Yes. Thank you for bringing this to my attention, Mycroft."

"My pleasure." Mycroft stood, inclined his head to her respectfully, then swept from the room.

* * *

"What did you say to convince her?" Sherlock asked keenly that night at dinner, all traces of his afternoon's misadventure cleaned away, John sat beside him and happy once again.

"Never you mind." Mycroft replied firmly and Sherlock, knowing that tone of voice, rolled his eyes exasperatedly. He'd never get the answer from his brother.

But a few minutes later, he lobbed a whole wheat roll at Mycroft's head to let him know he was grateful.


	13. Spending the Night With Sherlock

**This chapter is dedicated to **Alannalovingwriter**, a fabulous person who is currently going through an unfortunate time right now. I worked extra hard tonight to get this chapter out just for you, dear. I hope you like it- and keep your chin up! I know _exactly_ what you're going through and it's horrible. I hope some nice fluff can help :)**

* * *

John really liked spending the night at Sherlock's house.

It was different from his own house, which was small and cluttered and _boring_. Mummy was usually gone, working long shifts at the hospital, and she always left Harry in charge. As if John weren't old enough to take care of himself! He was almost 7, for crying out loud!

It was ok some nights, when it was just the two of them, but then other nights Harry had her annoying friends over _without permission_. The loud, annoying girls monopolized the telly in the sitting room- the only one connected to the satellite- and wouldn't let John watch their shows, relegating him to his room. Harry would also sometimes have her _girlfriend_ over for unauthorized sleepovers, sneaking her out before Mummy got home the next morning. She'd giggle and blush and act, in John's opinion, like an idiot whenever Stacy was over. They'd shut themselves in Harry's room and not come out the rest of the evening, which was fine with John as he got to watch whatever he wanted on telly for a change and eat however much sweets he wanted.

Sherlock's house was different, though.

It was a big house- _enormous_- and they had free reign over all of it except "Mummy's wing." The door to that part of the house was always closed and when John had asked _why_ Sherlock had shrugged and asked if John wanted more biscuits. He had yes, thanks, Sherlock.

Sherlock's room was near Mycroft's but Mycroft was a great older brother in that he left both little boys alone. Most of the time. If they got _too_ quiet, John knew the auburn-haired teenager would poke his head into Sherlock's room to make sure they were still alive.

So Mycroft was ok…as far as siblings went.

Sherlock also had a _huge_ yard (both he and Mycroft called it "the grounds") and he and John could play any game they wanted: badminton, football, rugby, American football… There was even a tennis court but they were both rubbish at playing that. Sherlock's house had both indoor _and_ outdoor swimming pools so they could swim whenever they wanted. Sherlock liked to play pirate games when they swam and John happily went along with him not only because it was fun, but because Sherlock had the best pool toys, most of which John had never even seen before. There was an actual inflatable pirate ship that held both their weights and floated around the pool, battery-operated tropical fish that really swam, and a huge inflatable iceberg they could climb, climb, climb then slide back down, splashing into the water.

Sherlock liked to do experiments- with John as his assistant, of course- and that was all good fun too. They'd run everywhere gathering whatever Sherlock needed this time- pine needles, wildflowers, honeycomb, sulfur, various feces from wild animals- and then ensconce themselves in Sherlock's room. Sometimes one or the other got injured in an epic way and that was when Mycroft was called. He shouted and lectured while patching them up and making threats about how John wouldn't be allowed back if Sherlock kept doing such and such things, because Mrs. Watson would want to know how John's eyebrows got burned off, or how he got the cut on his forehead (which would later become a very _dashing_ scar).

Dinner was equally fun. He and Sherlock took their plates and ate under the table, pretending to be pirates and giggling when Sherlock tried to tie Mycroft's shoelaces together.

John never had so much fun as he did when he was with Sherlock.

But there was one part of sleeping over at Sherlock's John didn't like, and it was a rather crucial bit: the actual _sleeping_ part.

Because for all his brilliance and proficiency in, well, _everything,_ Sherlock was _horrible_ at sleeping.

He moved continually: twitching, kicking, and generally flailing around. He stole all the covers and clutched them to his chest so John couldn't yank them back. He once even jerked the pillow from beneath John's head and pressed it against his own face. Then yelled something in French.

And that was another annoying part of Sherlock's failure to sleep properly: he talked in his sleep.

A lot.

About nothing.

Sometimes in different languages.

"Square roots….principal value…expressed by using Cartesian coordinates…which are….moss…moss has a growth rate of…of…popping corn."

On this particular night, John sighed as he listened to Sherlock mutter and wished Sherlock hadn't already thrown his pillow across the room, mumbling something about "shot-put velocity" as he did so. He needed something to put over his ears to drown out the racket of-

"Vous parlez d'une affaire infinie de rien…..L'homme qui n'a pas de musique en lui-même, ni ne se déplace pas avec la concorde des sons doux, est apte à trahisons, les stratagèmes et les dépouilles…"

John propped himself up on his elbow to stare down at his sleeping friend in consternation. Sherlock's eyes rapidly moved beneath his closed lids, and he turned his head, mouth open, as if seeking something.

"Les mouvements de son âme sont mornes comme la nuit…"

John, sighing, flopped back onto his side of the bed. He'd told his mum about Sherlock's nocturnal ramblings and she'd suggested he only visit Sherlock on the days she didn't have work. That way, John could spend the day with Sherlock, but his mum could pick him up at night so he could sleep at home. That idea had been shouted down- John _liked_ staying with Sherlock- and Mrs. Watson had shrugged, then helpfully recommended ear plugs.

"Ancient…end of world predictions state…gummy bears liquefy at…" Sherlock suddenly burst out laughing, startling John. His deep belly laughs trailed off into happy giggles before he sighed contentedly and whispered, "Mycroft." He then giggled again.

John was just thinking of purchasing some ear plugs, wondering if he could get them in any color that wasn't a garish hot pink, when Sherlock swiftly kicked out- his foot connecting solidly with John's leg.

John cried out and made to scramble out of range. Two more swift kicks- one to his upper thigh, the other to his hip- sent John flying from the bed to land on the carpet with a pained shout and dull _thud_.

"John?"

Sherlock's bedside lamp clicked on and his disheveled head popped over the side to blink sleepily at his best friend. "What are you doing on the floor?"

John, tears of pain streaming down his face, rubbed his leg and fixed Sherlock with an outraged glare. "You kicked me!"

Sherlock blinked back owlishly. "I did not-"

"_You did_!" John cried accusingly, sat on the carpet, wincing and rocking a bit as his thigh gave a great, painful twinge.

Sherlock was genuinely distressed. He didn't think he'd kicked John. He'd never, _ever_ on-purpose kick John or hurt him in any way.

The bedroom door opened and the overhead light clicked on, flooding the room in bright yellow. "What's going on in here?"

"Mycroft- John's-"

"Sherlock kicked me out of the bed!" John grimaced, giving his friend a death glare. Sherlock bit his lip.

"I didn't-"

"You did!"

"Well, I didn't _mean to_!" Sherlock cried, leaping from the bed and kneeling beside John. "I'm sorry, John. Are you in a lot of pain?"

"Let me see." Mycroft said, calmly pushing his brother out of the way and pulling John's pajama leg up to reveal a glorious bruise already forming. He winced in sympathy and probed at the spot. John whimpered and when Sherlock timidly took his hand didn't jerk away, instead clutching at it gratefully.

"Let's get you up and walk on it." Mycroft proclaimed, offering John a hand up and he and Sherlock stood to the side while John, his thigh muscles protesting, walked the length of Sherlock's room twice before Mycroft was satisfied. By the time he finished walking, his leg was feeling a little better and he told Mycroft, who nodded.

"You'll be fine. It's probably just a deep thigh bruise-"

"It hurts." John frowned at the off-hand pronouncement and Sherlock scowled at his brother as if _he_ were the one responsible for John's pain.

"I know it does." Mycroft spoke from experience. "There's a muscle salve in my first aid kit that'll sort it out. Then we'll find you another place to sleep." He was surprised John had lasted as long as he had in the same bed as Sherlock. Then again, John was a nice boy and probably didn't want to hurt Sherlock's feelings by suggesting different accommodations.

As if on cue, Sherlock turned to John with a hurt expression. "You don't want to sleep with me anymore?"

"Of course I do!" John said, shooting Mycroft a look. "But…but you kick out a lot, Sherlock, and I can't sleep because of it. I can still sleep in here!" John hurried to assure him, "Just…not in the same bed."

As Sherlock pouted and got hugged by John, Mycroft rolled his eyes.

"I think there's an inflatable mattress in the attic." Mycroft said, rubbing his eyes tiredly, groaning in his spirit at the idea of tromping up to the attic to retrieve the mattress. Then inflate it. Then warn Sherlock and John against jumping on it.

Then probably be woken sometime later tonight after the mattress exploded from them doing just that.

He'd never get to sleep.

* * *

**I committed the ultimate sin by using Google Translate for Sherlock's French quotes. Please, no pitchforks but if you speak French I would love an accurate translation. Here are the quotes:**

**"You speak an infinite deal of nothing."**

**"The man that hath no music in himself, Nor is not moved with concord of sweet sounds, Is fit for treasons, stratagems, and spoils-"**

**"-The motions of his spirit are dull as night..." **

**Both are from The Merchant of Venice.**


End file.
